


Hot Nerd Alert, Part Two

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: Hot Nerd Alert [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Stiles, Baseball Player Derek, Comeplay, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Fanart, Jock Derek, Jock Straps, Locker Room, M/M, Nerd Stiles, POV Stiles, Past Derek/Jackson, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Snapchat, Socially Awkward Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An hour into his meeting with Greenberg, Stiles' phone buzzes with a snapchat alert.</p><p>It’s Derek’s ass, framed in the reflection of a locker room mirror, tight white uniform pants practically painted on.</p><p><strong>Have fun studying, nerd,</strong> followed by a kissy-face emoji.</p><p>And <em>Stiles</em> is the nerd?</p><p>~*~</p><p>Part 2 of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2053611">Hot Nerd Alert</a></p><p>Inspired by this adorable <a href="http://prettiestalpha.tumblr.com/post/93016318453/derek-send-to-danny-mahealani-stiles-send-to">fanart</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Nerd Alert, Part Two

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, Part 2 of [Hot Nerd Alert](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2053611), from Stiles' POV, plus some smut!! 
> 
> Inspired by this adorable [fanart](http://prettiestalpha.tumblr.com/post/93016318453/derek-send-to-danny-mahealani-stiles-send-to)
> 
> **Please note the rating change from Part One. 
> 
> There will be a Part Three, from Derek's POV!
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovely peoples! XOXO

Back in sixth grade, after yet another conference with an exasperated teacher and his long-suffering parents, in which they were told yet again that his enthusiasm and intelligence were almost always overwhelmed by his inability to sit still or focus for more than ten minutes at a time, Stiles was finally diagnosed with ADD.

His mom didn’t want him to become too dependent on his meds, so they worked really hard to find other ways to help manage it. Like sitting in the front row, in the middle, of every classroom he’s ever been in since. Even that small change had made a huge difference, one of the key reasons he finally started getting good grades and enjoying school. In high school, his teachers would make sure that desk was always available for him.

But in college, it means he has to get to class at least fifteen minutes early, which took him some time to figure out in his first semester, but he’s got it down now. It means getting up earlier than he’d like to for his nine am English class, but that stopped bothering him the second the he laid eyes on Derek freakin’ Hale.

Stiles likes say his name out loud sometimes when he’s alone, likes the feel of it in his mouth, probably the closest he’ll ever get to having his mouth on him. He likes the name’s hard edges but soft center, something he likes to imagine is true about the man himself. It’s a ridiculous fantasy, of course. He’s fairly certain that Derek’s hard edges have hard edges.

Derek freakin’ Hale, who led the BHU baseball team to a national championship as a sophomore. Derek freakin’ Hale, he of the ninety-mile-an-hour fastball and .550 batting average. Derek freakin’ Hale, bearer of supremely sexy scruff and rippling muscles and eyes that are a different color every goddamn day.

Derek freakin’ Hale, who practically gives him a heart attack when Stiles walks into the classroom on a Monday about half way through the semester, because he’s _there_ , sitting in the empty room drinking coffee and scrolling through his phone, shoulder wrapped in the ice packs that Stiles rolled his eyes at the whole first week of class until he finally broke down and googled him and realized who he was.

He’s sitting in the front row, next to Stiles’ desk (and yeah, he knows that this is college, that seats aren’t assigned, that it’s every man for himself, which is why Derek, who always shows up in a rush right as class is starting, is always stuck with the uneven left-handed desk in the corner, making it way too hard for Stiles to stare at him). But _come on_ , Stiles has sat in that seat every day for seven weeks. It’s _his_ , and Derek damn well knows it.

He trips over his feet a bit, scuffing his toes on the linoleum and pushing his glasses up his nose, smiling in excitement and pure terror and maybe even a little bit of anger, because _what the hell_. It’s bad enough that the dude’s mere presence makes him feel like he’s being slowly burned alive from the inside out, what with _that ass_ and _those arms_ and his stupidly cute uneven teeth and his soft, subtle lisp that gets more pronounced as their debates get more intense.

But this? For some reason he gets to class early for once and chooses to sit next to where he _knows_ Stiles always sits? What in the hell is this asshole up to? He swallows hard, forcing himself to play it cool, nods and even manages to smile a bit, which of course, is greeted with that fucking death glare of his.

“Hey,” Derek grunts out, looking up at him, eyes bottle-green with little flecks of amber today.

“Morning,” Stiles replies, his smile growing wider, because _Derek freakin’ Hale_ just said hello to him. He’s screaming inside, but he’s got this, he can do this. He goes to sit in his desk next to Derek – oh god, _they’re so close_ he can _smell him_ , and fuck, of course he smells _so_ good. Like fresh-cut grass and soft leather and soap and _man_ , and good god, he’s going to start drooling if he doesn’t get it together.

Those wildly aggressive eyebrows and the hard line of his full mouth shape his breathtaking face into an even harder glare, staring him down like he’s the clean-up hitter and the bases are loaded. Stiles blanches, feels his own smile fade, his ire rising quickly.

Yeah, so what if he thought he saw Derek’s otherwordly eyes fall to his ass when he moved to sit next to him (thank you, Lydia, for insisting he buy these slacks). That doesn’t really matter when he looks like he wants to rip Stiles’ throat out, keeping that laser-sharp glare on him for a moment longer before returning to his phone, texting quickly.

Probably texting his hot boyfriend to make fun of the dork in his English class who refuses to stop arguing with him…and staring at him…and daydreaming about him…and definitely fantasizing about all of the things he wants to do to that ass. (Stiles doesn’t actually know if Derek is still with the doll-faced guy he saw in the celebration pictures from the championship game a couple of years ago, but he can’t imagine anyone being stupid enough to break up with Derek. If Stiles ever gets his hands on Derek, he sure hell won’t be letting go anytime soon. Possibly ever. _That ass_.)

He sighs and gets his book and notebook from his bag, watching Derek text out of the corner of his eye. He knows it’s pointless, that he should just settle for whatever it is they have and be happy that Derek humors him enough to dazzle him with his vast literary knowledge.

But every time he decides to really try, Derek goes and does something to pull him back in: in the third week of class, his facial hair officially crossed the line from messy scruff to full-on beard. When he caught Stiles staring at him open-mouthed, he could have sworn he looked pleased.

And then the next week when Scott, the bestest of best bros, knew he had been up almost all night studying for a chemistry test and met him after class with coffee, knowing he wouldn’t have time to get some himself before the exam. Dead on his feet, Stiles has declared his eternal love for him just as Derek walked by, looking more pissed than ever, that glare focused squarely on _Scott_ of all people.

It’s all probably in Stiles’ head, Derek’s weird reaction to things that could possibly mean that maybe he didn’t hate him as much as seemed to most of the time.

But really, all it takes is another glance at just how nicely Derek’s low-slung basketball shorts – Stiles is fairly certain he’s got them in every variation of the school’s maroon, silver, and white color scheme – hug the exquisitely round bubble of an ass that he wants to write filthy love poems about, and he’s right back to wishing and hoping, wanting something more.

 _So much_ something more.

Derek’s so intently focused on his phone Stiles feels like he can risk looking directly at him to study his stern profile, as if the answer to the enigma that is Derek Hale is written there in soft fur of his beard.

In high school, most of the jocks had been especially douchey to the more academically-focused kids like himself. He’d gotten pushed around a couple times, nothing major, the fact that his dad was the county sheriff keeping him protected. Most of them just ignored him, never really even saw him. But Stiles saw them, nursed some secret crushes, his body’s attraction to their bruising masculinity and strong jaws fighting with his mind’s aversion to their apparent ignorance and lack of intelligence.

His ADD may make him a little unfocused sometimes, but Stiles _loves_ school, is obsessed with learning, owning his nerd persona proudly (though he really prefers _geek_ , but whatever.) It drives him crazy that he’s so attracted to guys who never seem to share his interests, who can't keep up with him intellectually, and who definitely have no interest in guys like him.

Point is, he’s never really met a guy like Derek. That first day, right before Professor Morrell was about to start class, the door burst open – _along with the heavens_ – to reveal the most draw-droppingly, gorgeously sexy man he has ever seen, looking like he had just come from the gym, shoulder wrapped in ice. Stiles had expected him to be as lazy and vacant as those good-looking jocks he lusted over in high school, but then Derek opened his mouth and was smart and articulate and Stiles might have fallen in love right then, even if he was incredibly suspicious. Derek just seems too good to be true.

Each day he has spent in his presence has only confirmed that he is indeed as brilliant and well-read as he seemed that day. Ridiculous as it sounds, Derek seems to be everything he’s ever wanted in a man. Stiles is only nineteen, has only had two boyfriends ever, has only slept with three people. But he can’t shake the feeling that Derek was made just for him, that they could be downright perfect for each other if they could just get past whatever it is that’s stopping from them actually getting to know each other.

Derek laughs at his phone, a surprisingly gentle sound that Stiles wants more of, wants to cultivate, make grow. Wants to see what Derek looks like when he gives in to laughter, if that’s even a thing he’s capable of. Derek shifts in his desk, straightening his left leg a bit. Stiles sees the ice bag on his knee, throws caution to the wind. He’s got to do _something_.

His joke is decidedly lame – something about the two icebags – but he manages to let Derek know that he likes baseball, and then none of that matters because _Derek freakin Hale looks at him and smiles_. An honest-to-goddess _smile_ from the surliest motherfucker he's has ever laid eyes on. It's a blindingly beautiful smile, uneven teeth bright, shadows on either side of his mouth under his beard that Stiles realizes are _dimples_ , his own mouth dropping open just a bit at this new discovery.

 _Stiles_ made that happen. He’s flushing with heat, and fuck, he should not be this hard right now, but he can’t control his stupid body. Derek’s huge bare biceps and rippling forearms are so close and he just looked into Stiles' eyes, his face lighting up, and now those eyes, pupils big, irises ringed dark on the outside – fall to Stiles’ mouth, those thick black lashes blinking hard. His smile fades, chiseled face resuming his regular hard expression, eyes narrowing. Clearly Stiles has some issues, because it just makes him even harder, even though it irritates the fuck out of him, because what the hell dude?

He’s so done. So fucking tired of feeling like this, of wanting him so badly and never knowing where he stands with him. “Jesus, dude. Just trying to make conversation.” The bitterness he hears in his voice makes him wince a bit, and he turns down to his phone, starts composing the mother of all rants to Scott. He doesn’t know what this asshole’s problem is, but Stiles sure as hell isn’t going to let him fuck with his emotions anymore.

“Just a sprain,” Derek practically growls, like talking to Stiles is actually causing him pain or something.

He doesn’t want to respond, doesn’t want to acknowledge his stupidly beautiful existence after he just leveled him with that glare. “What,” he snaps, trying and failing to not glance over at him, seeing that his eyes are still locked on him, glare not as harsh but face still guarded.

“My knee. Just a mild sprain. I’ll be fine for the season.”

“Good for you,” Stiles barks, getting more pissed. This guy is un-fucking-believable. Now that he knows Stiles knows who the fuck he is, he probably just wants to make sure he won’t go around telling people that he might be injured.

Derek doesn’t say anything in response, just looks back to his phone, Stiles doing the same, sitting there in pained silence. When he’s sure Derek’s not paying attention to him, he takes a quick snap of his dejected face and sends it to Scott and Lydia **.** Scott responds with a pouting face smooshed next to Allison’s cat and an **i’m sorry,** making him feel a little bit better.

When he googled Derek, he learned that he’s expected to be a highly sought-after draft pick after this upcoming season; in fact, he was drafted last year but declined going pro so he could finish his English degree. Of course that had just made Stiles want him more. He had also found an article in Sports Illustrated from the week of his national championship, profiling Derek as an openly gay college athlete, about what might happen if he were to become the first openly gay pro baseball player. There was also a similarly-focused article from The Advocate that had a picture of Derek and that boyfriend, Jackson something, both wearing backwards baseball caps, Derek carrying Jackson on his back in a piggy back ride, both of them smiling. It was so sweet and cute and painful Stiles kinda wanted to die.

He may have also watched several of Derek’s highlight reels and interviews, fully accepting the fact that his jock kink was quickly becoming a baseball player kink…a Derek-shaped baseball player kink, because those tight white pants and that ass and that beard and those hands, knuckles of his right hand taped in post-game interviews, running through his sweaty, dark hair…

The Derek in those interviews is humble and soft-spoken, not nearly as aggressive and combative as he is in class when he gets into it with Stiles. But he talks about pitch placements and base runners and the importance of queer representation in sports with the same focused intensity that he does about literature, making him all the more confounding and compelling. As much as Stiles thrives on their heated in-class debates, and _god_ , he loves them, loves the way Derek leans forward in that awkward, wobbly desk that’s too small for his big body, flashing eyes sometimes falling down to gaze at Stiles’ groin for long moments – he can’t help but want to know that other Derek, too.

**~*~**

In Lydia’s defense, Stiles _has_ been doing an utterly terrible job of keeping it together. It’s just that Derek is _right there_ , close enough to reach out and touch, to feel how hard those biceps really are, see if his beard is as soft as it looks. He’s so off his game he’s somehow lets Derek back him into a corner where he’s trying to defend Humbert Humbert, just for the sake of argument because Derek’s voice is even sexier up close and he never wants this conversation to end. And then the sonofabitch goes and says something like _literary subterfuge_ , and Stiles can’t help but groan, because _come on_.

Stiles isn’t sure what horrifies him more: the fact that Lydia basically announces his all-encompassing crush on Derek to their entire class, or that he can't stop himself from nodding and smiling for a second when she asks if they want to be alone. At least Derek looks more embarrassed and dazed than insulted, so that’s something, right?

“Maybe you need to see him outside of class,” Lydia suggests after he forgives her when she buys him froyo that afternoon. “Change of scenery, switch up the dynamic.”

“Huh,” Stiles, says thoughtfully, licking a sprinkle from his lip as he to puts together a plan.

**~*~**

He’s observant, you see, a result of innate curiosity and being raised by a cop and a lawyer. So of course he noticed the logo on Derek’s coffee cup yesterday, jotting the name down on the title page of his used copy of _Lolita_ when he and Derek were sitting in pained silence.

Another google search later, and Stiles learns that the coffee shop is a few blocks west of campus near the lake, down by the athletic facilities.

His stomach flips when he walks in Tuesday afternoon, still not quite believing that he’s doing this. As horrifyingly awkward and frustrating their not-conversation before class yesterday was, Stiles can’t get the damn asshole out of his head and he’s fucking desperate for something, _anything_ to happen. So here he is, planning to get some coffee and a snack and read, hanging out as long as he can in the ridiculous hope that he might run into Derek.

Derek, who’s one person in line in front of him, at the counter ordering.

 _Holyshitholyshitholyshit_ it actually worked. This is even better than he had hoped. Well, unless Derek doesn’t believe in coincidences and figures out that Stiles is basically stalking him.

It’s possible he didn't think this all the way through.

He takes a quick snap of his own stunned face, **oh shit HE’S HERE** , he types, sending it to Lydia, trying not to freak out too much. Even though he’s nearly bursting with anxious energy, he plays it cool, tries to act like he doesn’t notice him, a near-impossible feat because _that fucking ass_ is making his mouth water.

Stiles had thought Derek’s ass in basketball shorts was a gift from god, and now he’s fairly certain that his ass in perfectly fitted dark jeans is the handiwork of Satan himself, because _holy hell._ Sinfully hot doesn’t even come class to describing the marvel before his eyes, all perfect curves hugged snugly, tight enough to bounce a hell of a lot more than a quarter off of. He’s wearing a really nice shirt too, a pretty blue that probably makes his eyes look even more magical, but Stiles can’t tell for sure because Derek’s walking away from him, going to wait for his coffee.

He sighs, once again thankful and frustrated that college has dangled what he wants so badly just out of reach. Perhaps he should just be thankful that he gets to see and talk to this breathtaking man about literature for a few hours a week and just be happy with that.

He manages to order a latte and a scone, not really even sure what kind he got, eating it in a daze of trying to look like he’s not overcome with lust as he stands to the side of the counter, waiting for his coffee. Derek walks over to the bulletin board, takes a picture of a flyer for some band, probably to send to stupid Jackson, planning a cool sexy romantic date or something. Jerks.

Lydia snaps him back, thank god, giving him something to focus on so he can recover. She’s smiling broadly in the pic, giving him a thumbs up, which he has never seen her do in person. **go get ‘em, tiGRRRRRR.** It makes him laugh, relaxes him a bit. He takes a deep breath, settles his nerves. He may not have Derek the way he wants right now, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible, right?

When he looks back up from his phone, Derek’s back is to him again, standing opposite the counter, stirring sugar into his coffee mug. Quickly, without thinking too much about it, he turns and takes a selfie snap, managing to capture Derek from the ribs down, perfect ass on display. He waits until Derek walks over to a table by the window before studying the pic in detail, smiling as he screenshots it. Yeah, Derek may not be his, but at least he has that ass to look at.

He draws a few glowing lines from Derek’s butt to indicate it’s glowing perfection, captions it **Dat ass is in my class (God bless college)** and adds an emoji, sending it to Scott and Lydia. At the last second he decides to send it to his friend Danny too, the senior he met at the Pride Center open house a few weeks ago. They had bonded over coming from small towns with very limited options for gay boys, both grateful for all that college has to offer. Stiles knows Danny will _definitely_ appreciate the beauty that is Derek Hale’s outstanding ass.

He gets his latte and picks a table near Derek’s, close enough that they can see each other but not so close that he looks obvious, which probably just means that he looks even more obvious, but whatever. He sips his coffee and tries to read, but really just keeps glancing up at Derek, who’s laser-focused on his own book. This is absurd, really, he should just walk up to him, say hello, ask him a question about the book, hell, even ask him if his stupid knee is feeling better, _anything_ to not waste this opportunity.

It’s quiet in the café, quiet enough that he hears Derek’s cell ding with a text alert, his own cell dinging at almost the exact same time. When he risks another glance across the room he catches Derek’s eyes, the first time they’ve actually made eye contact since Stiles walked in. His face is unreadable, expression carefully blank, but Stiles was right about that shirt and his eyes.

He looks back down to check the message. It’s from Danny, a pic. He opens it, eyes going wide as he sees that it’s a picture of him. Or, rather, it’s a screenshot of a snap of him, captioned **HOT NERD ALERT** with a blushing emoji. He’s wearing the same clothes in the snap that he is now, and...wait…what.

There’s the top of a face in the bottom right corner, a big green-blue eye and an aggressively thick eyebrow he’d know anywhere.

_Holy. Fucking. Shit._

Danny just texted him a screenshot of a snap Derek sent him.

Danny knows Derek?

Derek takes selfies?

Derek thinks Stiles is a hot nerd?

Derek uses blushing emojis?

Derek uses blushing emojis _in relation to Stiles_ , who he thinks is a HOT NERD?

Stiles swallows hard, finally starting to put the pieces together about Derek’s weird behavior towards him, how it all could be his way of struggling with some of the same stuff Stiles has been struggling with, because Derek seems to think that he’s hot enough to take a pic of and snap it to –

 _Oh fuck._ If Danny sent Stiles a screenshot of Derek’s snap, then he probably sent Stiles' to Derek. _Oh god_.

He hazards another glance over at the owner of _dat ass_ , who’s still intently studying his phone, shoulders tense and hunched. Fighting off what threatens to be near-hysterical laughter, he gathers his things and rises, walks with purpose to Derek’s table, resolute and emboldened, giddy and scared.

He falls into the empty chair across from Derek, dropping his bag and pushing his phone over so Derek can see his own snap on Stiles' phone, holding his breath until he looks up at him, unable to fight off the smile that pulls at his lips when he sees the look of astonished wonder in his eyes.

Derek doesn’t look down though, keeps his eyes locked on Stiles’, the smile that devastated him yesterday starting to twitch at the corners of his mouth.

“So, ‘Hot Nerd’?”

**~*~**

Dating Derek Hale – _Derek freakin’ Hale_ – is so much better than Stiles imagined, because pretty much everything about Derek is even better than he ever could have imagined. Derek broke up with that Jackson guy last year and has been single ever since. He’s even more brilliant than Stiles thought and good god, he’s just as sarcastic as Stiles but secretive and quiet about it. His ears get red when Stiles compliments him, and he talks about baseball like it’s poetry. And that smile. Stiles has gotten very good at coaxing that smile from his harsh face, heart racing every time. He’s utterly enchanted by the man, equally enamored with his mind and his body.

His body that Stiles has seen maddeningly little of, thanks to Derek’s frustrating insistence that they take things slow, get to know each other a little better before they have sex. Stiles agrees, he really does. He wants things with Derek to last, doesn’t ever want to not see that smile or hear the soft timbre of his voice when he’s explaining the difference between a two-seam fastball and a four-seam fastball.

So they’re both willing to be patient. Patient, not like, monks or whatever. They’ve spent the night together a few times and gotten their hands on each other’s dicks. Stiles has seen the shape of Derek’s mouth when he comes, has heard the delicious low rumbling groan from his chest. But even though their last few dates have ended with insanely hot handjobs, Stiles is aching for more, and he’s pretty sure Derek is too, judging by the increasingly hungry look in his eyes and how fast he’s come the last couple times.

It’s been just over a month since their first impromptu date – on which Stiles admitted to kinda sorta stalking him, which just made Derek laugh. They had the boyfriend talk last week, both of them smiling like fools the whole time (seriously, Stiles is never going get tired of saying _my boyfriend, Derek_ ).

Even though they haven’t talked about it directly, Stiles knows tonight is the night, can feel it in the way Derek kisses him goodbye late this morning after dropping him off at his dorm, in the press of his hands against his jaw, in the promise of his warm mouth, in the way he whispers against his cheek, _see you tonight_.

Stiles pouts as he gets out of the rumbling Camaro. Derek’s on his way to play in a preseason game while Stiles has to meet with his chemistry lab partner to work on a project, and he's not happy about it.

“It’s not a big deal,” Derek had said. “It’s just an exhibition game to squeeze more money from alumni donors. You wont be missing much.” Stiles understands, of course, but it didn’t do much to ease his disappointment. He’s kinda dying to watch Derek play, to see that unbelievable body do what it was born to do, to see just how perfectly those damn pants hug his perfect bubble of an ass. To go a baseball game _as the star pitcher's boyfriend.  
_

He sighs heavily, cursing his devotion to his studies as walks into his dorm, determined to get through his meeting as fast as possible so he can try to catch the end of the game.

He _needs_ to see _dat ass_ in those pants, okay?

**~*~**

An hour into his meeting with Greenberg, Stiles' phone buzzes with a snapchat alert.

It’s Derek’s ass, framed in the reflection of a locker room mirror, tight white uniform pants practically painted on.

 **Have fun studying, nerd** , followed by a kissy-face emoji.

And _Stiles_ is the nerd? **  
**

**~*~**

Stiles rushes through his project with Greenberg, but he still misses the game, the ballpark looking abandoned by the time he gets there. Derek’s car is still in the parking lot though – the only one other than a big gray pickup – so Stiles parks next to him and gets out, goes looking for him, wandering through the stadium.

He’s about to give up and call him when he spots an unmarked door that seems to lead to some inner sanctum. It’s locked, but right after Stiles gives it a try it opens from the inside, a huge, good-looking black dude on his way out.

“Hey, man,” Stiles says. “I’m looking for Derek Hale.”

“Sorry, kid,” the guy says, letting the door fall shut behind him. “Interviews and autograph time are over. Try again next game.” He starts walking away, Stiles flustered and not even that offended because his boyfriend is _so cool_.

“I’m his boyfriend, Stiles,” he calls after the guy, who turns around. “Here to surprise him.”

The guy raises an eyebrow, and yeah, Stiles knows how fake it probably seems to him. He knows that Derek is into him, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t forgotten how mismatched they are in the looks department, how weird they must look to other people. In fact, he wouldn’t even be surprised to learn that Derek hasn’t told many people about their relationship for that very reason.

“Stiles,” the guy says, sounding…happy? “Hey man, sorry about that. I’m Boyd. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Boyd offers his hand, and Stiles is still trying to recover from his surprise when he takes it a firm handshake. Boyd, the team trainer who Derek has mentioned a million times to him, has also apparently heard about Stiles a little bit too, it seems.

“Derek got roped into doing a bunch of ass-kissing with alums after the game. He’s still getting cleaned up.” Boyd unlocks the door and gives him directions to the locker room, Stiles grinning as he puts together a plan.

**~*~**

The locker room looks empty when he first walks in, but he quickly finds Derek tucked away in a back corner, standing next to his locker, shirtless but still in his snug-fitting baseball pants, back to him.

Stiles just watches him for a second, dumbfounded, having never seen Derek’s bare back before. His torso is a perfect V, broad rippling shoulders that descend gracefully in a cascade of smooth skin and muscle to his strong hips, two sweet little dimples at the base of his spine just begging to be kissed. There’s a tattoo, three black spirals pivoting from a central point, nestled in between his shoulder blades, which surprises him and makes him want to put his mouth there. Stiles wonders if he’ll ever not be in awe of how earth-shatteringly beautiful Derek is, that he even gets to look at him, let alone have the honor of touching him. He hopes not.

“I missed the game, but I guess I made it time for the best part,” he says finally, smiling at how big Derek’s eyes are when he spins around, surprised.

“Hey you,” he says, soft and sweet with a smile, opening his arms for a hug. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate his front – _ohmygodhairpecshairabshair_ – before falling into him, breathing in deep and licking at his shoulder, eyes rolling back at the tang of sweat he tastes on his skin.

“Good game?” he asks, mouth finding the lobe of his adorable little ear, gasping as Derek’s fingers, each knuckle of his right hand wrapped in tape, crawl up under his shirt and trace teasing lines across his lower back.

Then Derek’s hands are clutching his ass, lifting him slightly and pulling him closer. “What game,” he huffs, lips finding Stiles’ to drag him into a slow burning kiss, that criminally hot mouth burning against his, beard scratching against his skin, lighting him up.

“Are we alone?” Stiles mumbles against his mouth, wet with his saliva. He pulls his glasses off and tosses them on to the bench with a clatter. He’s aching to feel the press of that fucking rippling chest against his skin, hands moving to unbutton his shirt before Derek even answers his question.

“Yeah,” Derek says, voice husky and needy. He pulls him into another kiss, this time more urgent, demanding, those big front teeth nibbling into Stiles’ bottom lip, sucking gently as he pulls away. Stiles is positively burning, cock throbbing in his khakis, hitching his hips to rock it against Derek’s. “But we’re not having sex for the first time in the locker room,” he adds, taped fingers sliding roughly over Stiles’ shoulders, pushing his shirt to the floor.

Stiles laughs and leans into Derek’s neck, rubbing the side of his own stubbly face against his beard, smiling even wider when Derek makes this happy little whining sound in response. Sex in a locker room with a muscled athlete is definitely in Stiles’ all-time favorite fantasies, but Derek’s right – as incredibly hot as that would be, he doesn’t want it to be their first time either. For one, there’s probably not any lube around (and if there is, then there is _a lot_ more about athlete culture that Stiles needs to investigate). And besides, when he finally gets to fuck Derek, he wants to be able to spread him out wide and take his time, memorize every elegant line and curve of his perfect body before losing himself in him, wants to absolutely ruin him with his cock and then get ruined in turn, wants to watch Derek come over and over again, make love until they’re both too exhausted and blissed out to move.

“How about a blowjob then, big guy?” Stiles asks, biting at his jaw, hands already sliding down the back of his pants, reaching for thick handfuls of tight, muscled buttocks.

Derek’s head makes a loud bang against the metal locker behind him, a low groan rumbling from his chest. Stiles takes that as an enthusiastic yes, bites down to his collarbone, licks up dried sweat from the hollow of his throat before diving further down, wanting to slow down so he can bask in the feel of Derek’s coarse chest hair against his cheeks, but he’s too keyed up, too eager. He gets a hard pink nipple in his mouth, teasing lightly as one of Derek’s hands tangles in his hair, the other tracing up and down his spine, sending shivers through his whole body.

Stiles falls to sit on the bench, putting him at eye-level with Derek’s groin, mouth immediately finding the hard lines of his ridiculous abs, wasting no time getting his tight, dirt-stained pants down his thighs, pushing them past his knees down to his ankles, Derek kicking them off. His mouth is watering when he gets his snug boxer briefs down too, breath catching in his throat, straining cock leaking in his pants.

Of course he was expecting it, has pictured it a million times, but he’s still not prepared for the breathtaking sight of Derek, chiseled body bare and dusted in dark hair, clad only in a jock strap, the white fabric stretched tight against his heavy, hard cock. His mind floods with fantasies: Derek bent over, hole wet and gaping, Stiles gripping the jock strap like reins, using them for leverage to fuck hard into him, to control the movement of his hips. Derek on his back, legs spread wide, writhing on Stiles’ fingers as he teases his cock with his tongue through the fabric. Derek straddling his face, sliding the front of the jock down to free his dripping dick, plunging it into Stiles’ waiting mouth.

“Oh my god,” Stiles croaks out, sounding wrecked, licking his lips before darting forward to suck at the wet spot darkening the fabric. It tastes like cotton and sweat and a new sweet tang that’s Derek’s precome, a taste he’s dying to become more familiar with. He smiles when he hears Derek hiss in pleasure, happiness flooding through him, a little bit in awe that he gets to have this, gets to hear what Derek sounds like when he’s aching for it.

He looks up at him, heart racing even more to see his eyes dark and hooded, staring down at him with such heated intensity it startles him a bit. “Stiles,” he whispers, sounding soft and needful, so goddamned _tender_ it makes him stand back up to kiss him again, lick into his mouth so he can taste himself on his tongue.

“You’re so goddamn gorgeous, you know that?” Stiles says, hands falling to playfully snap at the elastic circling his hips. He hooks the index finger of each hand under the straps, runs them back under the swell of his magnificent ass, pulling a bit, listening for Derek’s moan as it tightens the fabric cupping his cock.

“S’re you,” he mumbles into Stiles’ hair, hips rocking slowly, seeking friction, eyes blown and dazed.

If Stiles watches Derek’s face for much longer he might crack in two, shake apart with the power of what he sees there, with what he feels when looks into his eyes when they’re wide and open and unguarded.

And as much as he wants Derek’s dick in his mouth, he’s also overcome with the need to finally get his mouth on his ass. “Turn around,” he orders softly, smirking into the kiss he leans in to place on Derek’s flushed cheek. Derek smiles back, kisses his neck and turns, forehead and hands bracing against the lockers.  

Stiles falls back to sit on the bench, all of the air leaving his body and all of the blood that isn’t already in his cock rushing there in a roar that leaves him lightheaded. Derek’s unbelievable ass is just inches from his face, framed and put on display by the strong straps, two perfect globes of flawless man-flesh held high and presented for the taking.

Stiles _wants to take_.

He twists his fingers into the strap around his hips, snaps it playfully before giving it a rough little tug, pulling him close enough so he can to finally get his mouth on the muscled flesh, teeth grazing the soft skin that’s just a bit paler than the rest of him. “Fuck,” Derek huffs against the locker in front of his face, fist knocking against the metal.

“Can I,” he asks, fingers sliding under the straps, cupping his ass just above his strong thighs, tips teasing at the smooth skin, hands moving up to cup him, one perfectly round cheek nestled into the palm of each hand. After he asks for permission he leans forward a bit, breathing hotly against his cleft, biting his lip so he doesn’t just start devouring him before Derek gives him the okay.

“Yes, god, Stiles, please.” Derek pants, voice breaking a bit, mouth burying into his forearm, like he’s biting of a moan. Stiles nibbles at him again, sucking the tender skin lightly until a little pink mark starts to blossom, right in the middle of his left butt cheek.

“Don’t do that,” he whispers, eyelashes fluttering on his skin when he presses his face against his ass. “I want to hear every little noise I can tease out of you,” he adds, shaking a bit as it hits him, just how badly he does want that, wants to hear every little gasp and groan and curse, each tortured mewl and whining growl, wants to know what the strong and controlled Derek Hale sounds like when he’s being wrecked by Stiles’ tongue in his glorious ass.

Derek moves him arm away from his mouth, panting slightly as Stiles’ hands spread him wide, chest tightening when he sees the pretty dark pink of his tight pucker twitching in anticipation. Stiles licks his lips and smiles before leaning in to lick around his rim, tip of his tongue playing in the swirl of dark hair there, darting into him softly, teasingly, before pulling back to look again, still hungry for the sight of him like this.

“Stiles,” he growls, a warning and a plea all wrapped up in one.

Stiles is dying to go faster, to see how easily he can make Derek come like this, knows he should hurry up because they may be alone now but someone might walk in at any moment. But he just can’t hurry quite yet; he’s too enamored and in awe of Derek like this, sweaty and dirty, strapped up and exposed, strong body pliant under his hands and mouth. He spends a few more minutes teasing him, drawing all manner of broken gasps and moans from him as he licks and nips, tongue teasing and lightly stretching his rim.

Finally, when Derek has slammed his fist into the locker hard for the second time, Stiles leans back enough to spit into him, watching in wonder, practically drunk with awed lust, as his saliva drips down his crack and into his waiting hole, cheeks still spread wide under his hand. Stiles can’t describe the sound Derek makes in response, both because it’s so mind-blazingly hot and because the blood is rushing so loudly in his own ears as he finally dives in with vigor, mouth finally getting to work.

He tongues him greedily, the rich taste of this most beautiful and intimate part of Derek exploding across his mouth, making him even harder in his khakis, but he doesn’t even care about his own cock right now. He’s solely intent on how far into that ass he can get his tongue, how fast he can twist and thrust it into him, how unspeakably hot it is when Derek reaches back to help Stiles spread him wide, freeing one of Stiles’ hands to snap at the straps of the jock before reaching between his legs to palm at his leaking cock still nestled in the damp fabric. Stiles considers freeing him, jacking him off properly as he continues to ravage his asshole with his mouth, decides that he wants him to keep the jock on, wants Derek to come like this.

Derek seems to be on board with this idea, hips rocking back and forth, pushing his ass harder into Stiles’ face and then into his hand that’s rubbing faster on that impressive bulge. Stiles tangles his other hand back in the strap at his hips, reshaping his mouth to suckle his rim before shoving his tongue back in, his perfect hole spit-slick and shiny. He fucks into him hard, eyes rolling back when he thinks about how good he’s going to feel clutching around his dick like he’s clutching around his tongue, hand on Derek’s clothed cock working harder and faster. He gives the strap a hard, eager tug, and then that’s it, Derek’s loud moan echoes through the locker room and the cloth under his hand explodes with wet heat, the hole around his tongue tightening in spasms, Derek’s big body shaking with the force of his orgasm, mouth mumbling Stiles’ name into the locker as he shakes through it.

Stiles slows the movement of his hand but keeps working his tongue, smiling against him when he feels more hot bursts of come dampen the jock, drunk with the taste and smell and sound and feel of _Derek_.

His own cock is leaking something fierce, so he finally pulls back, takes his hands away from Derek to unbutton his pants and free himself. Derek spins around to watch him, chest flushed red and panting, eyes sleepy, small smile on his lips. “Let me,” he mumbles, moving like he’s going to fall to his knees.

“No,” Stiles stops him, getting an idea. “I want – “ he swallows, too close to bursting to keep talking. He pushes Derek back against the locker again, eyes fluttering up to meet his, knowing how hungry he looks. Derek seems to understand, slides the jock strap down his hips, finally freeing his spent cock, strings of fragrant come stringing from his half-hard dick to the cloth as he pushes it down his thighs. Stiles dives forward to bury his face in the crook of his groin, inhaling the heady, concentrated scent of his sweaty body, hand working hurriedly over his own dick, slick with precome.

He moves to Derek’s balls next, heavy and soft, then to his cock, licking up the mess he helped him make, humming in pleasure at the vibrant, rich taste of his come, at the little hissing whines of shock and bliss Derek is giving him as he licks him clean. He even tongues into his slit, needing to taste him at the source, wishing he could get inside of him of there too.

Derek slumps back even farther against the locker, pulling at Stiles’ hair, the final push that sends him off the edge, face falling into Derek’s abs, mouth dripping with spit and come, throbbing and shaking as his orgasm tears through him, alight with simmering heat and pleasure as he pulses in thick bursts all over his khakis.

“Holy shit,” he pants a bit later, mouth still pressed against Derek’s stomach. Derek snorts a noise of agreement, hauls him up easily by his armpits so he can kiss him slowly, lovingly. Stiles sighs into it, smiling at how this is so much better than all of his fantasies combined.

**~*~**

Their shower is a languid, giggling make out session, the two of them standing under the same nozzle in the big communal stall and letting the hot water run all over them as they mock-argue about who’s fucking who first. If Stiles had any remaining doubts about his feelings for the man, about how he’s fairly certain they were made for each other, they’re nothing but a distant memory now, because they’re arguing over who gets to _bottom_ first.

When they go to get dressed, Stiles finds his glasses, then his underwear, pulling them on while watching Derek step into his, realizing he loves seeing him put on clothes as much he likes watching him take them off. Stiles picks up his khakis from the floor, glaring at the stained crotch and thigh of one leg. “Awesome,” he says, moving to put them on. “Take out for dinner,” he asks, looking over at where Derek is pulling on jeans. “Come-covered pants are frowned upon in most restaurants, right?”

Derek laughs and pulls him in by the waist, hand against his bare, still-damp skin sending sparks through him. He kisses him with more beard than lips, laughing even more as Stiles squeals and pretends to squirm away from the soft-but-still-stinging scrape. “Here,” he says finally, handing him a pair maroon basketball shorts with the school logo on the bottom of one leg.

Stiles grabs them, eyebrows raised. “Really? I’m going to look ridiculous in these.”

Derek just rolls his eyes, which are a bright green-gold-blue today. “Ridiculously hot. Just put ‘em on. I’m starving, and I need to get you home so we can fuck each other’s brains out.”

That’s all the convincing it takes, so he drops his khakis into Derek’s gym bag and pulls on the shorts, feeling silly at how big they are on him, at how skinny and pale his legs must look. He looks up at Derek, who has stopped halfway through pulling on a green Henley to stare at where Stiles’ hands are pulling and tying the drawstring of the shorts so they don’t fall off his slender hips.

Skinny legs and narrow hips in basketball shorts must do it for Derek, because he’s biting his lip and reaching down to adjust his dick in his jeans, hand staying tucked under the fabric longer than strictly necessary. Stiles just grins, cheeks growing hot, not feeling all that awkward anymore.

He grabs his shirt from the bench, frowning again. A purple and yellow plaid button up with maroon basketball shorts?

Derek laughs. “Here,” he says again, tossing him a white t-shirt, fortunately not one of his sleeveless workout shirts, because Stiles is pretty sure the universe would implode if a nerd like him really tried to pull that look off.

When they’re finally dressed they walk hand in hand through the stadium. Derek drops his hand when they get to the parking lot, falling a few steps behind him, snickering lightly.

“What,” Stiles hollers, spinning around and grabbing him by the belt loops of his perfectly-fitted jeans, pulling him close.

Derek leans in to kiss him, hands gripping the smooth fabric of his shorts and squeezing lightly. He’s still laughing when he eventually breaks the kiss, mumbling into his mouth. “ _Dat ass_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [come hang out on tumblr](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
